


Silent Scream

by rnadison



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rnadison/pseuds/rnadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl had gotten separated from his father in the chaos of the prison inferno. But before Rick can find his son, the Termites get to him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

Carl was lost.

His breath came in short gasps as he stumbled through the foliage, leaves and twigs crunching underfoot as the arid scent of smoke hung in the air. Gunfire was still echoing in the distance as whoever remained at the prison fought for it in vain. His eyes stung with unshed tears, tears he thought had long dried up, but he refused to let them fall. What was the rest of the group doing now? Fighting still, or looking for him?

Was the group even still alive?

He pushed the thought away, stomach churning. They’d lived through worse than this, he decided. They got out of a burning building before--Hershel’s farm. No reason they couldn’t get out of this one.

But the Governor hadn’t been at Hershel’s farm.

His stomach gave another lurch. Hershel. He silently cursed himself for not shooting the Governor when he had the chance-- if he had, Hershel would still be alive. The prison would still be safe.

But even so. For his father’s sake, for his mother’s, for Judith’s. He would. Not. Cry.

His boot caught on a tree’s upturned root and he fell to all fours, shaking. That morning, when he’d weighed himself at the prison, he discovered that he’d lost two pounds. There on the forest floor, he lost some more. He threw up.

* * *

 

He’d never been on his own before. Oh, sure, he’d gone out by himself to check the squirrel traps or something, but there was always someone on fence duty nearby, someone else who could take care of the danger. But now there was no fence, and there was no one. He steeled himself and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before shakily rising to both feet. He wasn’t a kid anymore. Time to stop acting like one.

First--he couldn’t stay here. Not out in the open, with no one else to keep watch. That was a death wish. But he didn’t want to move away, because what if someone else was nearby looking for him, and moving only separated them further? Mom had told him that once when he was little, that if they ever got separated in public he was supposed to stay where he was, because she or Dad would find him.

He looked around at the trees surrounding him. He could climb up one of them at night so walkers or poachers couldn’t get at him. Plus, he’d have a bird’s-eye view of the area. Speaking of birds, he might even find a nest full of eggs somewhere. Yes. He would stay here.

But then there was the business of actually climbing a tree. Carl hadn’t done that since he was nine or ten. And he wasn’t as light as he used to be, no matter how food-deprived he’d been lately. He’d just have to be more careful with where he shifted his weight on the branches. Blue eyes scanned the area, looking for a sizeable tree.

A twig snapped.

Carl swiveled around so fast that he nearly lost his footing again. One hand rested on the gun at his thigh, eyes searching wildly for the perpetrator.

“So this is where the smoke came from, huh?”

A whistle. “Whoo-whee. Talk about a bonfire.”

Carl’s heart leapt into his throat. Voices. But he didn’t recognize them. As the footsteps came nearer his brain shot into overdrive, screaming at him to hide, but the feet in his boots saluted and said, “Not a chance, sir!” What resulted was an odd little shuffle where he took a step six ways at once without really moving anywhere. Before he could make a decision, the men came into view.

Unfortunately, he also came into theirs.

“Hey!”

One glance over his shoulder and Carl was already running, slipping on the leaves as he went. HIs surroundings became a blur of green and brown, leaves and branches scratching at his face, his clothes. A fallen tree blocked the path and he tried to jump it, only to grossly underestimate the distance: the tip of his boot snagged on the bark and he tumbled face-first into the dirt. He tried to drag himself away but someone was already gripping his ankle, and no amount of squirming or kicking could get him out.

Rough hands flipped him on his back and he was face to face with a man-- no, more like a boy-- calmly straddling him like an indulgent brother on top of his problematic sibling. Carl flailed wildly with his arms, but his captor grabbed both of them and forced them on his chest. Eventually he ran out of steam and lay quite still, panting, looking up at the smoke-tinged sky above.

The guy on top of him leaned over. He looked like he was supposed to be in college. Twenty-something. Glenn’s age. He chewed a piece of gum rather noisily. “You done?” he asked with a tilt of his head.

Carl stared stonily back.

Someone to his left sighed. “C’mon, Martin. This kid ain’t got a sliver on him.”

Martin held a hand up. “Ain’t gonna use him for cattle call, Seth. Wasn’t Gareth just complainin’ yesterday about how he wanted an assistant? If we bring him in, we might get double portions at dinner tonight.” WIthout waiting for a response, he turned back to Carl. “C’mon, kid. We’ve got a camp. We’ll take good care of ya.”

In one well-coordinated motion, Carl sucked up his last bit of saliva and spat in his face.

The other guy, Seth, roared with laughter. Martin himself wiped the fluid off his face with the back of his jacket sleeve.

“He’s definitely got moxie,” Seth admitted through his guffaws.

Carl’s face remained impassive.

“Let’s go, kid. You’re comin’ with us." 

 


	2. Hired

They had a car. Carl wasn’t sure how they got it, or where the fuel came from, but they had a car. And wherever they were going, it was taking forever to get there. His captors sat in the front, idly arguing whether or not it was possible to throw up while standing on your head. Carl caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. The boy staring back had a face so caked in one color- dirt brown- that he looked one dimensional. Light blue eyes that had seen too much gazed back, gently framed by tufts of brown hair that were peeking out from under his hat, and was also so long that it was starting to curl. The entire time, he was careful to keep his face as neutral as possible. All he had left anymore was his mind, and he didn’t want his thoughts being stolen from him too.

Captors. Why had that word come to mind? They didn’t really hurt him, or rape him, or threaten him. His gun, naturally, had been taken, but it lay in the cupholders at the front. He was fast. If he could just grab it, he could shoot the window and jump out. But if he did, what then? He didn’t have any food or extra bullets on him, and he wasn’t exactly the keenest hunter. Besides, if these two goons had the energy to debate such a stupid thing then that meant food wasn’t first on their minds. Wherever their camp was, they had food. Lots of it.

Besides, they seemed like good people. A little out of it, but good people.

He decided to simply wait it out. He would go to their camp, eat their food, clean, whatever they made him do-- but at the first hint of trouble, he was running away.

* * *

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but when Martin shook him awake, the sun was setting. When he’d first gotten in the car, it’d been empty; now, he was surrounded by bags and boxes of supplies of every kind. Ritz crackers looked up at him from one bag, rags in another. Even a bright orange bottle of bleach.

He didn’t know where he was at first. Rectangle silhouettes stood on top of other rectangles, but many of them were scattered about; large buildings were clustered together, like a small town. He was immediately struck by the unmistakable scent of barbecue, and his stomach grumbled softly. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday.

“Jesus, dumbfuck, I told ya to take Ferry’s Crossing!” Martin huffed, whacking Seth with his cap. “Now we’re missin’ dinner.”

“Don’t worry. You know Gareth’ll go bananas over the bleach we found. The cooks have been complainin’ of the stink in the kitchens for days.”

“Funny, you’d think they’d be used to it already…” Then, as though suddenly remembering: “Hey, kid. C’mon. Got someone for you to meet. Seth, start clearin’ some of this stuff from the back.”

They started walking, and Carl followed obediently, taking in his surroundings. Several of the buildings had signs on the doors, like _Dorms_ or _Trough Room_. He was wondering what on earth a trough room was when a slight stumble over something on the ground made him look down.

Railroad tracks.

He was at a train terminal. He had to be. That explained the rectangles from earlier. Boxcars. Of course.

They went through a door. _Courtyard._

It wasn’t a door to a room at all, just a door to another outside area. Card tables, folding tables, even a few picnic tables sat neatly in rows. Each table was filled with people happily cutting into steaks on paper plates with mismatched silverware. Carl’s mouth was watering like mad but he just barely managed to contain himself as they approached the grill, which was manned by a middle-aged woman with flaming red hair. She was speaking to a lanky man beside her, who had the beginnings of a beard going.

Martin whistled to get their attention and they stopped mid-conversation. The woman looked annoyed at the interruption and Carl’s first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

The other guy jerked his head in Carl’s direction. “Who’s the cowboy?”

Martin shrugged. “Found him today in the forest. You were always sayin’ you wanted someone to help with bookkeepin’ and whatnot. Figured you could use him.”

The guy gave Carl a real once over now, and Carl stared determinedly at a grease spot on the side of the grill.

“What’s your name?”

He shrugged, still avoiding eye contact.

“You don’t know?”

For a moment, Carl considered giving a false name, but they didn’t know anything about him anyway.

“Carl, I guess.”

“You guess.” A statement, not a question.

Another shrug.

“You good at math? Your handwriting readable?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to see.”

“Any special talents we should know about? Hobbies?”

Carl lifted his head, and his eyes finally became visible from underneath the brim of the hat. “I like to kill walkers.”

For some reason, this made the guy chuckle. “He’s not the pretty young girl I asked for, Martin, but he’ll do. I’ll take him. You’ll start tomorrow, Carl.” He plucked a piece of meat from the grill and popped it in his mouth, turning to leave. “Alright, Martin. YOu said you got some bleach on the run today?...”

They left.

Carl was left facing the ginger-haired woman, who smiled kindly at him.

“Would you like a plate, Carl?”

Would he! His nod was barely perceptible, but she reached over and took one from the stack beside her before hefting a generous piece of meat on it with a pair of tongs. He took the plate, every fiber of his being straining not to shove the whole thing into his throat right there and then.

“Silverware and napkins are over there,” the woman said, pointing with her tongs. “I’m Mary, by the way. The other boy, that was my son, Gareth. He’s a good boy.” She smiled in the way only a mother could smile about a son, and Carl swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “And you’ve met Martin, of course.” She tutted, turning over the pieces of meat on the grill with a hand on her hip. “He’s been chewin’ that piece of gum since we’ve met him. Lord knows how long he had it before.”

Carl managed some semblance of a smile before murmuring a quiet thanks and moving away to an empty table. He was about to swallow his dinner whole, plate and all, before his father’s voice rang through his head.

_If you don’t know where the meat’s come from, don’t eat it._

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen an animal pen or shelter when he walked in. Back at the prison, they had taken some kind of pride in showing newcomers their livestock, which was near the main entrance so that everyone had to look at it no matter what they were doing. But maybe these people had a different mindset. Maybe they hid away the livestock so then invaders like the Governor couldn’t see them and take them. Yes, that must be it. Besides, it was dark now. He wouldn’t have seen them anyway.

He couldn’t figure out the meat at first. After eating squirrels and the occasional deer for so long, he’d almost forgotten what beef and pork were like. Except it wasn’t beef or pork, or chicken even. What was that thing Mom used to like? Veal? Maybe that’s what this was. He’d never had veal before, so of course he wouldn’t have known that’s what it was.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me the other day why I was so obsessed with Carl, and I think it's because I'm like, morbidly fascinated with children in the apocalypse. I was really into Sophia too, before she died. Because it's like, these kids have more or less grown up in this world, so imagine how differently their mindsets are. Kids' brains are already wired differently from adults. Like… wow. I don't know. I get weird after I write stuff.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was an idea I'd been sitting on for quite a while… I took so long writing it because I thought I could only fuck it up if I got it on paper. I don't know. It's one of those things that you want to /see/ happen, you know?


End file.
